


The Cavern by Sa-kun

by Sa_kun



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-16
Updated: 2010-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sa_kun/pseuds/Sa_kun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is now that – he was able to see you in the pitch darkness before they made larger stones shine with a blue light, Harry – thoughts begin to circulate in his mind. Snape isn't a werewolf – of that much he is absolutely certain. What he is not absolutely certain of, however, is what any number of other Dark Creature out there Snape could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cavern by Sa-kun

Story Notes:  
This contains Vampire!Snape. Unbeta'd.

* * *

 _Shit…_

Harry looks around in vain. He hopes for light, for something that is not black and all encompassing and pressing in on him.

It feels like his cupboard. It feels like he is five again and has just turned all the cupboards in the kitchen that horrid, shrill yellow colour. Uncle Vernon threw him inside the cupboard and left him there for a week. He was five years old and terrified of the dark. He wanted his torch. Aunt Petunia had always let him have a torch.

Now, as he slides backwards on his bottom, looking wildly around, he wishes he still had that torch. He dropped his wand. It could be anywhere. Harry’s eyes widen. _Anyone_ could be here. The realisation that he might not be alone comes as a shock and Harry gasps.

Something shifts.

Harry freezes, but the sound comes again. Clothes, rustling. Then a stifled gasp. Footsteps. Harry shrinks in on himself. He is five and he repeats the mantra ‘I’m not here, you can’t see me,’ over and over in his head. Wish-magic, he had called it, because he found that most of the time people wouldn’t notice him when he said that, in his head, over and over and over.

The steps falter.

 _I’m not here, you can’t see me, I’m not here, you can’t see me, I’m not here, you can’t see me, I’m not here, you can’t see me, I’m not here, you can’t see me…not here, not here, not here…_

The steps begin anew, this time sounding a bit more hesitant. Harry curls up on himself. He presses his knees close to his chest and wraps an arm around them. The other remains limply by his side.

The footsteps come to a complete stop directly in front of him and Harry can _feel_ the draft of air the closure brings. But he is five and he _knows_ better than to make any sounds. Sounds mean Exposure and Exposure means Pain. He doesn’t like pain.

“Potter,” a deep voice drawls.

Harry flinches. “Sorry, sir,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to, honest. It was an accident, I swear!” because that is what he says when he is five and has just singlehandedly redecorated the kitchen in atrocious colours.

There is a strange pause, and then a hand lands on his shoulder and curls around it. “Potter,” it says again, a hint of impatience tints it.

“I…I…” Harry flounders. “Uncle—”

A hand slaps him hard and his head spins around. For a moment the darkness disappears and all he can see are stars and a white bright light.

“Unhinged, Potter?” the dark voice drawls and with a start of realisation mixed with dread and a sliver of loathing, Harry whispers, “…Snape?”

“Indeed.”

Harry stiffens and blanks. _How the hell could he even have thought – for even a minute – that he was back in that godforsaken cupboard?_

“No need to look so horrified, Potter; I can assure you I am none too pleased about the prospect of the two of us trapped in a cavern.”

Harry stiffens further and when he looks up his eyes are wide. But as he suspected the cavern is still dark, damp and dank. He cannot even see Snape – he can feel the heat of the man’s body but he cannot see him. “Sir,” he whispers. His voice doesn’t break as he feared it would. Snape doesn’t deign him with an answer, so Harry takes that as his cue to continue, “It’s pitch dark in here.” A stab of ice shoots through Harry. “Unless I’m blind… I’m not blind, am I?” he mumbles to himself and waves his right hand in front of his eyes.

It is, as Snape drawls acidly, “A fruitless endeavour.” Even _if_ Harry hadn’t been in a totally dark place, with his sight, he wouldn’t have been able to see in case he simply _was_ blind.

As Harry lowers his hand and turns his face away, he feels Snape almost immediately grasp his chin and his head is turned back around. Harry can only assume it is to face the man. He hears Snape breathe in loudly. Harry tenses. Cool fingers gently – or, well, Harry thinks it is gentle considering it is _Snape_ – prod his left eyebrow. “ _Bloody hell_ ,” Harry hisses.

“It would seem you have managed to damage yourself. Typical,” Snape murmurs.

Harry looks away – this time without moving his head. He wonders how it is that Snape can see while he can’t. “Am I blind?” the question is asked before Harry is even aware that he _wants_ to ask it.

There is a pause. A pause that by Harry’s reckoning is entirely too long.

“No,” Snape answers at great length. “You are not.”

“It’s dark?” Harry presses.

“It is,” Snape acknowledges.

“But you _can see_?”

Another pause – again Harry thinks it’s too long. “Yes,” Snape says shortly.

Then Harry hisses because Snape is rubbing something over his cut. “Ouch,” he cries softly. Snape snorts. Full of trepidation, Harry asks, “Do you have your wand?” while Snape continues to rub whatever it is on his forehead.

“I…” Snape’s hands disappear off his body and Harry can here shuffling and patting. Then an absolute stillness, as if Snape has momentarily disappeared altogether. The sting of his cut returns before Snape’s voice. “I do.”

Harry wets his lip. “Lumos?” he asks.

Harry can almost hear the man frown. “Pitch dark?” he asks.

“Imagine what you’d see if someone tied a blindfold over your eyes, sir.”

A low mutter and then Harry quickly closes his eyes. They still tear up at the abrupt light, though, and then they widen against Harry’s will as he is, quite suddenly, able to see what he had previously been unable to.

A cavern – but he already knew that. He can hear water drip-drop somewhere far behind him but he doesn’t turn around to look. In front of him, Snape is sitting cross-legged, and behind Snape the walls of the cave run a jagged circle. An _unbroken_ circle. A quick glance up reveals stalactites.

“You’re hurt,” Harry finds himself saying and realises that it is the absolute truth. The left side of Snape’s face is covered by a nasty bruise.

“As are you,” Snape retorts evenly and presses the cloth against Harry’s eyebrow. It still hurts. In fact…other than the sting from his cut, he feels sort of…numb. His left side – or more accurately: his shoulder feels very, very _numb_ and awkward. Like it isn’t there. It’s only as he tries to raise his hand that he realises that he can’t actually move it _at all_ and Harry numbly looks down at it.

 _Is his shoulder really supposed to look like that_?

“I think there’s something wrong with my arm,” he says faintly. Snape glares at him, then lowers his gaze.

“Indeed,” he answers drily. He grabs Harry’s functioning hand and presses it on the cloth on his forehead. “Keep pressure,” he orders.

Harry mutinously glares back, but he keeps pressure on the cut. Face wounds, however shallow they may be, always bleed more than they have to. “Ow!” he cries as Snape prods forcefully at his shoulder. Snape briefly meets Harry’s eye, then he presses again. “Ow, you bastard—”

“You may want to consider the fact that we are _alone_ ; no one knows where we are. The disposal of your life would be ridiculously easy,” Snape murmurs. Harry gapes at him. A smirk spreads across Snape’s pale lips. He runs one hand down to Harry’s elbow and grips it firmly. His other hand remains on Harry’s shoulder. “In fact, I would strongly advise you _not_ agitate me.”

Harry glares at him. “ _What_?!” he cries, incredulous. “All you ever _do_ is try to make me lose my— _AAAAAHHHH_!” Harry screams.

Pain, white and blinding, sears through his arm, his shoulder, his back, his chest and then it’s over. Gone, and Harry realises he’s stopped breathing and greedily gulps down large mouthfuls of the sweet, if rather stale and damp, air. “Bastard,” he mutters, over and over under his breath.

Snape smirks again. “Distraction,” the bastard says smoothly, as if he just hasn’t wrenched Harry’s dislocated shoulder back into position, “I have found, is extremely beneficiary in the act of setting dislocated joints.” His hands are still on Harry: one on his arm and the other on his shoulder. Harry starts as they both slide up to his throat and begin unfastening his tie.

“Hey—!” Harry protests.

“A sling is required, Potter,” Snape growls. Harry’s tie is tugged free from around his neck. Snape lifts his arm – it’s still somewhat numb to Harry – and smoothly lopes the gold and red tie around the appendix. He leans closer, a bit too close for Harry’s comfort; he can feel hot breath on his neck and smell strong spices on Snape’s robe, and then ties the loose ends around Harry’s neck. “Try not to move it,” he says stiffly as he sits back, opposite of Harry.

//

The magic stops working abruptly. The cavern is first dimly lit, then stark blackness envelops him and Snape. It stops their argument much faster and more efficiently than the Headmaster ever was able to do. Harry freezes, stumbles, then latches on to Snape’s wrist. The grip that was previously tight to the point of pain had already been loosened and withdrawn, so Harry doesn’t have to fumble for long.

“Oh,” Snape says and he sounds curiously surprised.

“What?” Harry breathes. “What now? Is there something—?”

“I must admit, I was not entirely convinced the darkness was so impenetrable.”

“ _You_ can’t see _this_ time?”

“Can you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But _nothing_ ,” Snape hisses. “Let go.” Harry hesitates. Snape wrenches himself free without bothering to be either gentle or surreptitious about it. Harry stands stock-still and doesn’t dare to move. Snape’s clothes rustle and glass bottles clink. Then there is a crash. Snape curses.

“Sir?”

There is a grunt, but otherwise Harry doesn’t receive an answer.

“Ah,” Snape says as his hands begin to glow a dim blue. Harry’s eyes widen, then narrow. It’s not the man’s hands, he realises. It’s whatever is inside the remaining bottle.

//

Three days later they are still trapped in the cavern. The day before – or what Harry _believes_ to be the day before – Harry explored the cavern as thoroughly as he could. There was indeed a pond and after a long moment of deliberation he went and fetched Snape. Snape cleared the water as drinkable and Harry happily helped himself. Even as a child, locked in a cupboard, Aunt Petunia had always given him water, and plenty of it.

Ever since he found out he was a wizard, he had figured his mum had done something ‘freaky’ while she was dehydrated.

So far, all he had eaten – shared with Snape, of course, although the man ate substantially less than Harry and _Harry_ was a picky eater already. He’d almost been in disbelief when he learned that there was, in fact, someone who ate even less than he did – had been Muggle energy bars. Well, Harry assumed them to be energy bars. Even just eating the half Snape shared with him made him full enough. He managed to ignore the funny aftertaste.

Apparently, Snape brewed a lot and when he was ‘in the zone’ he forgot to eat because he was too busy.

There are now seven bars left.

Harry wonders how much Snape brews if he feels he needs to have at least ten energy bars on him at all times. He doesn’t think it wise to ask, though, so he refrains.

Seven bars left and Snape has a…strange gleam in his eyes whenever he looks at Harry. Which he does. A lot. He can’t remember when Snape _didn’t_ look at him. Harry twitches nervously; that black penetrating gaze has been firmly fastened on him for what must have been _hours_ by now. Walking proved to be a moot point, as Harry has already discovered.

The black eyes follow him around. As if he is prey and Snape the predator. Harry quickly finds that to be even more disconcerting so he swiftly and not so elegantly sits down again.

It is now that – _he was able to see you in the pitch darkness before they made larger stones shine with a blue light, Harry –_ thoughts begin to circulate in his mind. Snape isn’t a werewolf – of that much he is absolutely certain. What he is not absolutely certain of, however, is what any number of _other_ Dark Creature out there Snape could be.

“You are bleeding,” Snape murmurs, voice hoarse from disuse. The sound makes Harry start.

They have not talked much during the time they have been trapped.

That is not to say that Harry’s conversations with the stalagmite down by the pond aren’t scintillating, he has just not _spoken aloud with Snape_ often. In fact, last time was when he thanked Snape for his half of the energy bar. Several hours ago by now, he reckons.

Harry runs his fingers along the jagged vertical cut on his forehead. His fingers come away sticky. Sighing, Harry finds the lint in his pocket and withdraws it. Once again he presses the already bloody cloth against his bleeding cut; apparently he has ‘grimaced too much and thus agitated his wound’. Snape’s words, he thinks, not his. The fact that Snape noticed, though –again! – when he is several feet away on the other side of a dusky cavern, is perhaps more scary than the fact that it’s been _three days_ and his cut still tears open at the smallest of movements.

“I’m tired,” he says in response and this time, it’s Snape who stiffens.

“I am not,” he responds.

Harry huffs and gets to his feet.

The cavern is dark, dank and damp and that makes it ruddy cold. “We have a deal,” Harry snappishly reminds Snape as he sinks down next to the man.

Surprisingly, Snape protests. “I do not think—”

Three days ago, when Harry had been alternatively struggling to remain awake and shivering badly with cold, it had been he who protested against the idea of sharing body heat. “I’m cold,” Harry grumbles and lies down. He curls up and shuffles close to Snape, seeking warmth the way a leech seeks blood.

Snape shifts. “I am hungry,” he says when Harry is almost asleep.

“‘Ave a’webar,” Harry mumbles.

Snape swallows almost audibly. “They will no longer satiate my hunger.”

Harry is almost asleep which, in other words, means that his brain has temporarily shut down. “S’tiate?” he asks.

“Satisfy,” Snape responds. “I…require something…else to meet my dietary requirements.”

“Hmmm,” Harry agrees. “S’water n’th’pool…fish…”

Snape is silent, and again Harry is almost asleep. “Surely you have heard the rumours?”

“Hmmm?”

“The rumours pertaining me and my habits.”

 _…pertaining me and my habits…_

Something stirs at the back of Harry’s mind. Against his will, he finds himself very much awake. He leaves his eyes closed, though, and he doesn’t move because for the first time that day(?) he is warm. What about Snape and his…habits? “That y’snoop?”

“That I eat students.”

Harry tenses. “Oh. Those.”

“Those,” Snape agrees and Harry finds himself incapable of movement.

Cautiously, because he really doesn’t want to hear the answer, he asks, “Were those the same ones that…that said you were a vampire?”

Snape remains silent just long enough for it to be oppressive, as if he’s waiting for their unlikely rescue to happen just then. It doesn’t, of course, and so when Snape says, “Precisely those,” Harry merely opens his eyes. All he can see is the back of Snape’s robe. The stone is hard and uncomfortable under his side, but it’s not unbearable.

Harry swallows harshly. “I, um. I don’t suppose there was…something bloody by the pond?” Snape doesn’t respond, not that Harry had expected him to. Uncurling, Harry supports his sore arm as he slowly sits back up. Snape’s eyes, as he almost expected them to, follow him silently the entire way.

They are yellow and the pupils are slit and Harry actually jumps in surprise.

“I…I… How hungry are you? I mean…it’s not like you need to feed _that_ often, right? And, and,” as he speaks, he slowly stands up and backs away. Snape follows him, matches him step by step. “I…once a week?” he asks desperately. “When did you last, you know. Um. Eat?” Harry freezes, his eyes comically wide. _Please, don’t let that have been the wall. Please don’t let that be the wall that I just backed into_ …

“Once a week is doable,” Snape murmurs. “Twice is recommended.” He stops when there is a mere handbreadth between them. “I am two days overdue for a _weekly_ repast.” Harry’s eyes are fastened on Snape’s transformed ones with desperation. “I would prefer you to be… _willing_ but I the longer I wait the less… _fussy_ I am likely to become. Inhibitions drop.”

“…you’re a vampire?” Harry asks, voice a mere whisper. He needs it confirmed. Black on white. Snape inclines his head.

Harry swallows nervously, Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’ll…you’ll attack me?”

“More than likely. The human body will do anything to ensure survival.”

That’s true, Harry supposes. No one really wants to die – not one hundred percent, anyway. They might think they do, and continue to think so even when they are well on the way to their death. They will want to live when they no longer can, Harry thinks. “Okay,” he says softly, “I guess I want to live, too.”

Harry doesn’t see the long fingered hands reach for the buttons of his shirt, but he does _feel_ them when they start to unbutton it. Leisurely, as if Snape wants to take his time. His robe is pushed down, away. His shirt is pushed back to reveal a pale shoulder and a long neck. Snape slowly trails a finger down the length of it.

“Do not be ashamed of your bodily reactions,” is all the warning Harry gets, because then Snape is _on him_. There is a hand cupping the back of his head and another caressing his shoulder – the naked one, not the dislocated one still covered by his shirt – and then breath. Hot breath on his neck shortly followed by thin scalding lips that kiss him softly, hotly. In quest for something _more_.

Harry moans. _Gods, but he has missed intimacy of this kind…_

Snape sucks, parts his lips and then there is the sharp sting of a bite and Harry’s blood flows into Snape.

When darkness claims Harry, Harry is delirious with pleasure and blood loss. His hands, which are tightly gripping fistfuls of Snape’s robe, won’t let go.

//

Days go by slowly, bleeding into each other. Harry has long since lost perspective of time, elusive as it is in the strangely magic repelling cavern Harry and Severus have been trapped in.

His formerly dislocated shoulder throbs and is still sore but they’ve done all they can for now.

Harry is propped up between Snape’s legs and rests against the man’s chest. He hasn’t bothered to button his shirt up for several days(?) and he is listening, eyes half-lidded, as Snape talks.

Snape – Severus – had been born a vampire, just like his Grandfather. Apparently it was one of those ‘gifts’ that skipped generations – for all they knew, maybe Parseltongue did the same in the Potter family. As a child his mother had given him blood once a month – no more, no less – and it wasn’t until Snape hit puberty that he, slowly, begun with his bi-weekly feedings. The Headmaster knew – of course he knew! – and had supplied with what Snape needed. Mostly, Snape said, his lips curled in disgust, it was tasteless, vile animal blood.

It didn’t do much for Snape, but it worked. It merely required that he ate a bit more fruit and vegetables – Harry does not see the logic in that. He tactfully leaves out the power bars, for which Harry is grateful; there is a faint metallic tang to them that he doesn’t want to find out too much about. There are potions, too, of course – in fact, Snape had promised Harry that he’d give him one of his personal Blood-Replenishing potions that has a faint aftertaste of strawberries once they were rescued. It worked slower, but it did the job, Snape said.

Harry didn’t doubt him.

“Snape?” Snape shifts. “I’m hungry.”

Snape wordlessly gives him an energy bar and Harry gratefully accepts it. There are five left. Four and a half now that Harry has eaten ‘a ration’. “Hungry?” he asks Snape.

In response, Snape kisses Harry’s neck. “No,” he murmurs.

The food will last longer, they reckon, if only Harry eats it. So far, his blood has managed to replenish itself suitably for Snape to be able to feed on it as often as he does. He sums it up to the power bars and is once again grateful that Snape hasn’t said anything about them other than: ‘ _they are, of course, able to sustain me rather satisfactorily_ ’. It leaves Harry a bit dizzy, yes. But then again: it’s not like there is much to do in their little cave.

The side of Harry’s neck and a bit of his shoulder are decorated with love bites and puncture wounds. Most of them are healing. A bit quicker than Harry’s used to, but apart from teeth that can grow long and sharp, Snape’s mouth – like all other mouths – is full of saliva, only his carries healing properties. ‘ _To keep the_ donors _from acute haemorrhage and thus_ wasting valuable food’. Harry tries his best not to think about that – even if he _is_ grateful that he hasn't got blood smeared all over his neck and shoulder. That would have been very sticky and very unpleasant.

“Are you, like, immortal or something?” Harry asks, out of the blue.

Snape tenses, but unlike three days ago, he now – mostly – responds verbally when Harry raises questions. “I am not.”

Harry frowns. “But I thought—”

“My parents were human, Potter. Mum merely carried ‘un-human genes’. I have been told to expect that I will not age at the same rate as my peers. Madame Pomfrey tells me I regenerate quickly. My grandfather was merely twenty years older than Albus currently is when he died,” Snape says loftily, dark voice empty of emotions. As if he doesn’t care.

If Harry didn’t know better he would have said that Snape sounded almost flippant. It hits him almost immediately that he _doesn’t_ know better. He doesn’t know Snape at all. Doesn’t know his favourite colour or if he is interested in Quidditch. He doesn’t know what kind of foods – other than blood and besides fruits and power bars – he likes to eat. If he eats sweets on Saturdays, whether he reads the Daily Prophet at breakfast – does he eat breakfast at all? Now that Harry is thinking about it, he realises that most mornings Snape just…sits there, up at the head table. Maybe he drinks coffee?

“A full-fledged vampire, however, has a lifespan that is estimated to be around two or three hundred years. Immortality,” Snape says drily and interrupts Harry’s thoughts, “has a price that is too high to pay as I am sure you are aware.”

“Yeah…I guess I knew that,” Harry says softly. “But…they have companions, don’t they? The vampires, I mean. I remember reading about it in the Prophet a while ago.” Harry frowns deeply. “Something about a scandal…”

“If you are referring to the incident at the Leaky Cauldron,” Snape begins but Harry interrupts him.

“I think that was it, yes. The Keeper in England’s National Team was seen ‘consorting’ with a vampire twice his age and the Ministry was in an uproar. The public was appalled and parents worried about the influence it would have on the children.” Harry snorts. “I used to read the scraps of Dudley’s comics but _I never_ wanted to be Batman or Spiderman when I grew up. That’s just ridiculous. Because, let’s face it, how many children _read the news_?” Harry shifts and rests his head on Snape’s shoulder. “…though, I kinda really wanted to be Cyclops or Wolverine, now that I think about it. And Storm was so cool…”

Snape clears his throat. Harry is briefly unsure about his position. With his head leaned back, most of his own throat is exposed… But Snape had said he wasn’t hungry, so Harry hopes it isn’t a problem. Then Snape says, “I was always fond of Magneto. I thought his talents to be quite attractive.”

Harry’s eyes are wide and shocked, because there is _no way Snape just said he read X-men when he was little_. He knew Snape was a half-blood, of course, but going from that to having read Muggle comics… “I…I guess he was kinda cool, I suppose. I just liked that Wolverine had swords coming out of his knuckles, you know? And when I did my chores outside, I always wished I could have special powers like Storm and make the weather nice.”

Snape is silent for a while, then he asks, “Would it not be more efficient to _produce_ a storm?”

Harry shakes his head. “You’ve seen my memories, Snape. Bad weather or not, if Uncle Vernon told me to mow the lawn, weed the garden and trim the shrubbery, then that was what I would do.” Now that he thinks about it, those first few months back in First Year he had been so bewildered, because _why_ did so many of the other students _like_ him? The teachers were the same, really. “I always thought you were the only one who really knew what a freak I was, you know? Because of the way you treated me. The Dursleys always told me that I should be grateful that they took me in because, really, I didn’t deserve it. And…I believed them, for a while. When I got too old to hope for a relative who loved me to come and get me and was still too young to realise I deserved better.

“In a way…in a way, Snape, you helped me realise that I wasn’t a freak – that I deserved better. Could be more than the Dursleys, better, stronger…” Harry slowly trails off, feeling tired and numb. Mentally and emotionally numb this time, opposed to the numbness that used to be his arm, but now is a giant, throbbing _pestle_ grinding against his body.

“I…I am glad, then,” Snape says so quietly that Harry almost can’t hear him.

Harry stiffens. “You…knew?”

“Yes. I _am_ a master of subterfuge.”

Harry ponders that for a moment, then asks, “So you see what others don’t? What we try to hide?” Snape nods. “So…you’d know… _stuff_. Like, secrets, you know? That we don’t want anyone to know about. Like…”

Snape interrupts. “For example, more often than not, this previous summer found you in the bed of the second oldest Weasley.” Harry goes completely stiff in Snape’s arms. “You did a most commendable job concealing it.”

Cautiously, Harry says, “If you hide in plain sight, in places so obvious that people ignore their existence…if you make it _too_ obvious. If you learn how to say things so that everyone will automatically assume that you are joking, or lying or being insincere… If I pretended to swoon, batted my eyelashes and had floppy wrists and declared that, yes, I’m as gay as they come, no one would believe me. Because Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, isn’t gay and _everyone_ knows that.” Harry knows he sounds bitter: bitter and empty, but somehow he figures Snape won’t mind either way. Snape is great like that: in making Harry feel human and normal.

“Yes,” Snape agrees quietly, “everyone knows that.”

Harry turns his head slightly, so that he can rest it against Snape’s. “I could tell them that you sucked my blood and that you really are a ‘vampire bat of the dungeons’ and no one would believe me. Isn’t that…sad? Everyone expects me to loathe you to the point of insanity, it’s…. They’d just pat me on the head and send me on my way.”

“I would say it is exhilarating, Potter.” Harry turns his head and Snape does the same. Their eyes meet and Harry thinks Snape looks somewhat amused. “For everyone I speak to are under the misconception that I cannot jest.”

Harry chuckles. “We live in the same world, you know? But for all that matters it could’ve been two different ones.” Harry shifts again and turns to rest sideways against Snape instead, but firm hands and a snappish, “Foolish boy,” dissuades him.

Snape moves him back, Snape’s chest against Harry’s back. “You ought to know better than to deny a vampire once you have offered.”

“I’m not your—!” Harry protests angrily. Cool fingers pressing down on the most recent bite abruptly silences him.

“This,” Snape hisses, “Is _my_ blood. _You came to me_. _You_ imposed yourself on _my_ person. This,” Snape hisses again, but this time he also runs fingers feather-light across Harry’s throat, neck and shoulder, “needs to be _seen_. I need to be in control over _this_ area.”

Harry sits stock-still, disbelief and anger mixing in his stomach. It explains so much… Snape hasn’t let Harry out of his sight since the second bite; Harry offered himself freely before Snape and Snape accepted. Since then, Harry has always been in front of Snape, his shoulder has been exposed and visible and…within reach. Harry blanches.

“When we get out…when they come for us…back at school…”

Snape kisses his neck.

With a flash of dread Harry realises that Snape has been doing that since the second bite. As if…he’s worshipping it, paying his respects, undermining Harry’s authority. Harry wrenches himself free so quickly that he is standing up and facing Snape, several feet away, before the man realises that Harry is no longer sitting between his legs.

“I’m not yours!” Harry yells, repeating his earlier words. “Okay, fine – I let you suck my blood! I admit I like it! But I’m not yours, Snape! I’m not your property or, or _some toy_ you can just do whatever you want with!” Harry stops mid-tirade, mouth half-open as Snape fluidly gets to his feet and stalks closer.

Harry backs away from him in an eerie replay of their first feeding. “I won’t—!”

“Potter,” Snape growls as he stalks closer. He doesn’t stop until his chest is pressed up against Harry’s.

“I think you’ve had too much,” Harry says softly, unable to bring proper power to his voice with Snape so close. Snape grabs his shoulders and Harry hisses as pain flares through him. Snape doesn’t appear to notice.

“That may be so,” Snape concedes. With great difficulty he keeps his eyes on Harry’s. Slowly he loosens his grip and Harry sighs again, this time in relief. “However—” and he wraps an arm around Harry’s neck, “—do not expect me to get over it while we are in such close proximity to each other.”

A memory of a tale about an alcoholic locked in a wine cellar pops into his mind. Harry sighs. “Just try to let me get out of your sight, Snape. I need to wash up and having you stare at me is just…bloody unsettling.” He tilts his head back and shakes his wayward fringe out of his eyes. “You could do with a bath yourself.”

//

For five entire days Ron and Hermione had – Harry grimaces but there really is no other way to describe it – _pestered_ him. The only reason Harry can figure why they did so is Snape. Someone must have told them about Snape and what Harry let him do for three weeks, because _Harry_ certainly hasn’t told them about Snape. It’s too personal and private and none of their business. Besides, Snape would have his head if he told. He has a really hard time wrapping his mind around the time frame of _three weeks_ ; no matter how he twists and turns the facts around, he can maybe appreciate them to have been trapped for two weeks, and that is stretching it thin. They didn’t sleep enough for them to have been lost for three weeks, didn’t eat enough.

Being a Seventh Year means he has too much experience sneaking inside the Hospital Wing, so the fact that he manages, Cloak on and Map pocketed, does not come as a very big surprise. On the bed, Snape opens his eyes and frowns. Harry grins. As he walks closer, he slips the Cloak off.

“Hey, Snape.”

“Potter,” Snape says evenly and doesn’t berate him for the lack of title.

Harry fiddles with his Cloak as he stands before Snape. “My friends wouldn’t let me leave.”

“Indeed.”

Harry swallows. “Yeah… Dumbledore… He was really disappointed in me, you know?” he says this quietly.

“You willingly gave blood to your most disliked teacher on numerous occasions, Potter.”

Harry looks up and his eyes are so green they make Snape uncomfortable. He doesn’t show it, of course. His left eye twitches. “Yeah, but don’t you see? _That_ would’ve made him proud in the past! He’s always said that my strength lay in love and forgiveness, but…what was he expecting?”

Snape stares at Harry so intently that the boy can’t help but squirm. Snape waves at a goblet standing on the bedside table and sneers, “He expected me to live on _animal_ blood.”

Harry grimaces. “Ugh.”

“Sharing blood is serious in the Wizarding world, Potter.”

Harry nods. Then he steps closer and sits on the edge of Snape’s bed. “Yeah, I know, sir.” Casually, he rolls the sleeve of his shirt up and exposes his wrist.

Harry’s wrist is pale and bony. Beneath the skin – which is almost translucent to Snape – blue veins can be seen clearly. “Potter,” he growls warningly.

Instead of fleeing, Harry smiles. A well placed spell and a wave of his wand and the goblet with blood falls over. “Terribly sorry about that, Snape.” Harry is cheeky and impish. “Can’t let you starve, can I?” he murmurs as he stretches his arm out further.

Snape grips it. His fingers are strong and firm and, as hot breath and scolding lips descend on the sensitive, delicate skin, Harry shivers and wonders why it is so strange that he has actually _missed_ this. True, in the cavern Snape had fed from his neck, but that was only because of Harry’s dislocated shoulder and he had needed at least one operational arm.

Sharp teeth break the skin and Harry hisses. _Gods_ , he’s missed this. Then the teeth are gone, instead there’s a sucking sensation for a few moments and then that’s gone, too. Lips caress his wrist, pressing kisses and licks on the abused skin. When Snape pulls away Harry is a puddle of pleasure.

It’s not until Snape pinches his nose lightly that Harry opens his eyes. Harry feels a daft grin spread over his face but he is powerless to stop it. He’s not sure he wants to anyway. “Were you any younger,” Snape drawls as he wraps a bandage around Harry’s wrist, “this would be quite illegal.”

Feeling tired and lethargic, Harry shuffles up further on the bed. He would’ve lain down, but Snape stops him with a hand on his shoulder and a reprimand.

“That would not advisable,” Snape snaps.

Harry pouts, but he nods in agreement. “No, I don’t suppose it would be.” Standing up, he sighs, “See you Friday, then?”

Snape narrows his eyes, and then nods. “Very well.”

* * *

The End


End file.
